


Fair Winds and Following Seas

by idelthoughts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age of Sail, Alternate Universe, Covert Hornblower References, Fic of Fic, over fathoms deep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-04-24 17:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4928446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/pseuds/idelthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lieutenant Gregory Lestrade has faced a great many challenges in his twenty-three years of naval service, but life aboard the merchant ship <i>Galatea</i> may break him long before they reach India.  <i>A story in bittergreens' Over Fathoms Deep Sherlock AU.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bittergreens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Over Fathoms Deep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744148) by [bittergreens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens/pseuds/bittergreens). 



> Thanks for letting me play with your toys, holmesianpose.

Gregory Lestrade hadn’t started out life with dreams of the open ocean.  However, with three uncles and four cousins in the King’s Navy, and a French father eager to prove his patriotic fervour to both his English wife’s family and the country at large, he was pressed into service long before the press gangs showed up for able bodies.  He had a quick enough mind, and so he’d been made a midshipman, and thanks to war being declared, his acting appointment to lieutenant came fast and young.  As such, at the age of thirty-three his commission already stretched seventeen years.  
  
Technically he was still in the Royal Navy—and thank God someone on board had to know how to operate the guns—but life on a merchant ship was a different pace.  A ship of the line was a crowded environment, but an East Indiaman was a whole other level of cheek-and-jowl humanity.    
  
In the service, officers were sacrosanct.  He could walk the deck to the windward side, feel the clean brush of the air, and for a moment look towards the sea and find peace.  The hands and other officers, by years of naval custom, left the officers to their pacing should they find the need to walk, or as a pair find a private place to talk.  When the captain came on deck to do the same, Heaven help the man who failed to abide by the rule.  
  
Passengers, however, had no such regard.  Everywhere Lestrade went, there were people ready to talk, to make requests, or to generally chatter like seagulls, filling the air with such empty blather that at times they drowned out the creak of the ship and the endless noise of the ocean against the great hull of the ship.  
  
Oh, and the complaining.  How could a body of people find so much to complain about?  True, Lestrade had not felt the comfort of home since the age of ten, but surely shipboard life was not such hardship.  Compared to a naval vessel, they lived in luxury.  Once a week, the officers took dinner with the upper class passengers, and he’d never seen the like aboard ship.  Proper mutton roasted well, and not the gamey fare that the lieutenants would sometimes invest in on long voyages.  Yet everywhere he walked, someone would catch him and find cause to complain.  Their cabin was too small, they had nowhere to dry their clothing, the smell was too much, the men were too rough—and his favourite, could he please see to the ship rocking less as she travelled the waves?  
  
One particularly surly old maid, a Ms. Grimsby, accosted him in the first days of the voyage.  She was beet red with rage, the one concession to colour on her otherwise drab grey travel dress.  
  
“Mr. Lestrade,” she snapped, “I demand you put a stop to this caterwauling!”  
  
“Lieutenant,” he corrected, though he didn’t know why he bothered.  She wasn’t in the mood to listen.  He clasped his hands behind his back and braced himself for the inevitable stream of bile headed his way.  “What seems to be the problem, ma’am?”  
  
“The sailors.  Day and night, they’re bleating away, top of their lungs.  I hear it in my sleep.  Dirt common, but even my ward is humming their so-called songs!”    
  
He frowned, momentarily confused, until she wielded her finger like a cutlass and pointed for’ard to where one of the messes was holystoning the deck.  As they worked they sang, as was the common way for such rote tasks that required backbreaking, repetitious work.  
  
“They’re at it again,” Mrs. Grimsby hissed.  “And the words!  No God-fearing vessel should allow such filth!”  
  
Lestrade, already beaten down by the relentless complaints of the passengers and the endless explanations of shipboard life, tried to keep his resignation from showing too visibly.  
  
“It’s tradition, ma’am.”  
  
“Well put an end to it,” she said.  
  
His temper, already short, vanished like a burning cannon cord.  
  
“Not my mess,” he retorted with flippant disregard.  In the shocked, sputtering speechlessness that followed, he spun on his heel and beat a hasty retreat.  
  
A few hours later as he tried for futile privacy to the windward, closing his eyes and trying to hear the waves above the blustering chatter of two fat gentlemen discussing the interest rates of the Bank of England and how to best set the borrowing rates for India to concur, Lestrade heard a softly cleared throat behind him.    
  
Bloody hell, not again.  He drew a deep breath and turned around, a bland smile fixed on his face.  
  
To his surprise, it was a young lady.  Perhaps a little plain, one hand nervously turning a small purse around her wrist as she waited for his attention.  Her hair was covered by a blue bonnet, but long strands of her dark hair had escaped and her blowing across her face.  When she opened her mouth to speak, one went straight into her mouth and, on her inhale, set her choking.  She began to cough, and turned pink.  
  
Lestrade automatically stepped forward and brushed the hair from her face, sweeping it off her soft cheek, then steadied her by the elbow.  
  
“Are you alright, Miss…”  
  
“Hooper,” she said, strained and still sounding like a hair was down her throat.  
  
“Miss Hooper,” he said.  
  
Her wide brown eyes looked up at him, her expression so startled and sweet that he smiled, chuckling softly, and she gave him a tentative smile.  He could smell a hint of lavender on the wind, and as the roll of the deck rocked him nearer to her, he was tempted to lean down to pursue the sweet scent.  
  
There was another difference in life aboard a merchant vessel—women.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent this much time in the company of women.  He wasn’t sure if it was good or bad.  At least ashore he had the option to find himself some company if he chose, though in recent years his experiences were more fleeting than anything that could be called courtship.  
  
During the war he’d spent years aboard ship, and opportunities were a thin.   Two weeks shy of his twentieth birthday he set foot on English soil for the first time in four years, and as a newly-confirmed lieutenant he set to drinking down those four years of pay to celebrate.    
  
Somewhere in his blind drunken stumble he met, knocked up, and married a fair-haired woman by the name of Elizabeth.  He had all of a week with his new bride, most of it spent horizontal, and as far as he was concerned, wedded life was bliss.  She gave him a hell of a farewell behind the salt beef barrels at the shipyard, demure yet coquettishly dressed in some fluffy, yellow-trimmed frock that nipped at the waist and flared at the hips and settled around her like a billowing cloud when she dropped to her knees and plucked at his breeches buttons.  
  
For seven months all he had to remember his new wife by was vivid dreams of her blue eyes and beautiful mouth as she looked up at him through heavy lashes, and the fading black letters _’GA’_ on his white trousers where his arse had pressed into the freshly painted _HMS GARLAND_ on the side of the salt beef cask.  Upon reporting for duty, his first lieutenant had done a turn around him, and then with a grunt said, “Looks like they stamped this one for us,” and sent him on his way.  It had taken him until that night to spot the paint, and only many months of concerted effort with a brush, seawater, and the bleaching effect of sun and weather, managed to erase it.    
  
A year later, in dock at Kingston, he received a letter from Elizabeth saying that she’d left him for a wealthier man, and that no baby had been forthcoming from their union after all.  Presumably the lump sums of his pay he’d been sending home would not be furnishing a home he’d return to, but rather would furnish her home with another.  He glumly took off his ring and set it in his sea chest, wrapped in a little scrap of oil cloth.  He should have tossed it overboard, but an excess of sentimentality had always been one of his greatest faults.  The deep white line, startlingly pale against his browned, weathered skin, looked like a ring itself on his finger, but inside a few months in the tropics it disappeared—much like his brief experimentation with love.  Married to the sea, beauty ashore, and all that.  He might be a sentimental fool, but he’d not be a romantic one as well.  
  
While not an animal incapable of a little restraint, he spent more time than was necessary watching the sway of skirts along the deck, noticing unweathered skin becoming browned and wind-bitten with each passing day aboard ship.  It was a little like having his face pressed to the glass of a sweets shop.  However, he was a damned sight wiser than that.  The passengers were not the strumpets and whores who plied their trade at every port, and dalliances with passengers with whom he’d be forced to spend the rest of the journey would only end in disaster and discomfort.  
  
But Miss Hooper, a head shorter than him and decked in her day dress finery, was like a beautiful little China doll plunked down in the middle of these fat bankers and hardened sailors, and it was very, very hard not to look.  Look, and perhaps imagine a little, because _damn_ it had been a long time since his last experience with what passed for intimate companionship.  
  
The clang of four bells broke through his thoughts, and Lestrade realizing he’d been staring at her with his mouth hanging open, hand cupping her elbow.  She blinked rapidly, starting to stutter inarticulately, and like a choreographed dance move they both took a step back to put a proper distance between them.  
  
Lestrade offered a stiff little bow, trying to cover his embarrassment.  
  
“Miss Hooper, what can I do for you this day?”  
  
“Oh, I—well, that is to say—I mean…”  she trailed off into flustered silence, wringing the little purse at her wrist.  With a funny little bob and shake of her head, a move that Lestrade found quite endearing, she drew a deep breath and mustered a tight smile.  “I came to offer apologies on behalf of my chaperone, Ms. Grimsby.  She means well, even if she can be…”  
  
Miss Hooper trailed off, and Lestrade bit his lip to stop the stream of uncomplimentary adjectives that helpfully cued up on his tongue.  She seemed to notice his effort, and her smile softened.  
  
“Well, yes, exactly.  So, anyway, apologies, Mr. Lestrade.”  
  
“Lieutenant,” he said automatically, then winced at how officious that sounded.  She could have called him any name under the sun and he’d still have been happy to have her company.  
  
“Lieutenant,” she repeated dutifully.  “Lieutenant Lestrade.  Just so.”  
  
She emphasized the alliterative L’s and bounced on her toes, finding the little joke amusing enough to giggle a bit.  He waited for the inevitable comment on his last name, readying himself to defend his English heritage and loyalty, but none was forthcoming.  Miss Hooper looked suddenly worried, and Lestrade realized he’d left an awkward silence and he launched himself a reply of any kind.  
  
“Yes!  Yes, that’s—that’s me.  And no apologies necessary, please.”  
  
“Oh.  Well, then.  Thank you.”  
  
She bobbed her head again, and then made a smart turn that set her skirts swirling around her, and scampered off, her trajectory weaving in an oscillating line that corresponded with the gentle roll of the ship.  
  
Lestrade tugged at his neck cloth, which was stuck to him with the heat of the day and nerves.  While not a complete disaster, that could have gone better.  
  
Before Miss Hooper she reached the gangway to lower decks, she looked back over her shoulder.  Lestrade, caught with his finger in the neck cloth, yanked his hand away and sucked in his stomach, snapping to attention like he was a midshipman caught skylarking by the captain.  She smiled hesitantly, then continued on her way and disappeared into the dark well.  
  
He relaxed, and then slowly smiled, unreasonably pleased with himself.  Perhaps it hadn’t gone so bad after all.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Lestrade tried hard not to fidget as he stood behind the captain, feet braced wide to hold himself steady against the roll of the ship as she sped along in the hard wind to stern.  Roberts had his gnarled hands clamped to the rail, scowling up at the reefed sails from the quarterdeck.  
  
The forenoon watch briefing was often the only interaction Lestrade had with the captain.  Usually Lestrade was called to the captain’s cabin to deliver the daily report, speaking to the top of Roberts’ head as the captain bent low over his desk and only acknowledged Lestrade with a grunt here and there.  On days when the captain deigned to join them above deck, the briefing consisted of Lestrade trailing behind Roberts as he prowled the ship like a grizzled wolf, finding only fault with his disapproving gaze and leaving terror in his wake, while Lestrade tried to find the line between questions that required answers, and rhetorical ones that required his silent humility.  
  
Roberts straightened and turned back toward Lestrade.  
  
“What’s her speed?”  
  
“We’ve been making a consistent six knots and are—”  
  
“Six!  In a wind like this?”  
  
“Aye, sir,” Lestrade said.  He tipped his head towards the straining sails on all masts.  “It’s a strong nor’northeaster, and it was blowing steady since daybreak, but I gave orders for the reef when—“  
  
“She’s not a crystal vase, Lestrade.  Enough of your overzealous circumspection, let out the sails while we’ve got a good wind.  We can pull eight or ten knots with some proper seamanship.”  
  
Lestrade grit his teeth at the backhanded insult, and Lieutenant Deverall cast him a sympathetic look.  Deverall, holding the forenoon watch with Lestrade, had slunk back to take up a spot by the ship’s bell when Roberts had made his appearance.  He was doing an admirable job of appearing busy doing nothing while Lestrade took the brunt of Captain Roberts’ poor mood.    
  
Roberts wasn’t the first tyrannical captain Lestrade had served under, nor would he be the last, but it was the senselessness of his orders that rankled.  The ship was too heavy for full sail in a high wind, and nearly losing the mast in the storm had served as ample warning to be cautious with focusing too much on making time and cutting corners.  Were they short of supplies or in desperate straits he could see rushing, but there was no need.  
  
Apparently done, Roberts descended the gangway to the main deck, and after a moment’s deliberation, Lestrade followed, hurrying to catch up before he reached the main gangway to belowdecks.  Mindful of his volume so as not to call the attention of the passengers, he called to the captain.    
  
Roberts stopped, turning back to Lestrade.  He pinned him with a cold look.  Lestrade already regretted his persistence, but it was too late to change his mind now.  
  
“Sir,” he said, “respectfully, with how she responded in the storm, I felt it the best decision. She’s loaded with—”  
  
“I know what she’s loaded with.  Do not presume to tell me about my own ship, you insolent pup!”  Roberts took a menacing step towards Lestrade, and his voice dropped to a low rumble.  “I gave you this post, and I’ll toss you out on your ear at Rio if I get any more trouble from you, Lestrade.”  
  
“Aye aye, sir.”  
  
Lestrade clamped down on his frustration and settled into the blank, calm façade of the model officer.  He might as well be a midshipman for all the respect the captain afforded him, rather than a first lieutenant with nearly two decade’s service aboard ship.  
  
“Good.  Now see to—“  
  
The ship’s bow rose up sharply as they hit a large roller, and Roberts cut off, both he and Lestrade pausing to brace themselves on the ropes lashing down the port side life boat.  The bowsprit shot into the sky and then plunged back down, pulling a distressed groan from a cluster of passengers nearby.  One gentleman ran for the side to lean his head over, clearly vomiting.  Even weeks into the voyage, the weaker stomachs still suffered seasickness during heavier winds.  
  
While not so stormy as to be dangerous, Lestrade had little faith in the common sense of their passengers, and so with a brief apology to the captain he hurried over to pull the man back from the side before he managed to get himself tossed overboard.  The sickly face of Mr. Knott met him, and Lestrade guided the ill man back to a safer position.  
  
“Perhaps you should repair below, sir,” Lestrade said, in a tone that was less suggestion and more order.  
  
“Yes, yes that sounds…”  
  
Knott trailed off, and Lestrade took a subtle step back, not wishing to spend the rest of the watch with vomit on his shoes.  Knott, slack-jawed with nausea, gaped silently, weaving on the rocking deck as Lestrade kept him from falling down.    
  
“All well, Lieutenant?”  
  
Roberts had come to join him, and was standing with hands to his hips, surveying the grey and miserable Knott.  He seemed calm now, a flip from his previous ire.  Lestrade fervently hoped that Roberts would not also find some way to blame Knott’s seasickness on Lestrade’s supposed lack of seamanship.  
  
“All is very well, Captain Roberts,” Knott cut in before Lestrade could answer.  His voice was shaking, and if possible, he was even more pale.  “Very well.”  
  
“Not everyone has a stomach for the open ocean, eh, Knott?  Long way from England out here.”    
  
Roberts’ words were jovial, but his tone was so neutral as to obscure any thoughts or emotions, and the hairs on the back of Lestrade’s neck stood on end.  The captain’s fury was unpleasant, but this quietude was far more unsettling.  
  
“Yes, I was just—just taking some air.  I was—I’m—“  He swallowed, and with a curt bow to both men, backed away.  “If you’ll excuse me.”  
  
Knott fled, and Lestrade watched him go, confused.  Lestrade turned to the captain to find Roberts, staring with sharp eyes at Knott’s back.  
  
“Do you know him, sir?” Lestrade asked.  
  
Roberts turned his attention back to Lestrade, expression stony, and Lestrade wished he could reel the words back in.  Roberts was silent for a few seconds, then narrowed his eyes.  
  
“Let out the sails, Lestrade.  See to your orders.”  
  
Lestrade touched two fingers to his brow and beat a hasty retreat to carry out his nonsensical orders.    
  
He was starting to miss the straight-forward, simple days of life aboard a war-bound naval ship.  
  
It wasn’t as though Lestrade was a glory seeker.  Every man wanted prize money, of course, but he didn’t really have the bloodthirsty knack one needed for war.  He was content to do the job, to listen to the rigging sing on a fine day, to drill the men until they were as smoothly oiled a machine as the gun trucks belowdecks, and happy as any tar aboard to find his spot in the sunshine during make and mend.  
  
Three months recovering in Portsmouth after a Spanish blade had skewered him through the thigh had done nothing to change his mind about the so-called glory of battle.  By the time Lestrade finally got himself on his feet again, his ship, _Pembroke_ , was long since sailed away, and he was in need of a new post.  He’d purchased himself a spanking new uniform, dark blue wool brushed to perfection and crisp white trousers, proper buckles on his shoes and fine new hose free of holes, and set to work on finding himself a captain in need of crew.  
  
However, it had done him no good.  England at peace meant every ship had its choice of officers, and those without a current commission were out of luck.  Never mind a lieutenant with the pale look of months ashore.  Funny how all that glory and victory counted for nothing the moment the King had no further use of his officers.  
  
Discouraged and feeling low, Lestrade had hit the Portsmouth Naval Officer’s Club for a bit of distraction.  It wasn’t his normal routine, but he could at least commiserate with the other officers eagerly awaiting a post.  He’d near swallowed his tongue when timing and fate put him square in the seat of a deserting whist player, and opposite the stern face he’d only seen rendered in drawing and in newsprint portraiture.  
  
Captain Roberts was well known to anyone who’d ever so much as glanced at the Naval Gazette.  He’d scowled at the lanky, beak-nosed captain who’d left the table and nudged a kibitzing Lestrade into taking his spot—a suggestion that was an order when given by captain to lieutenant, even in the off-duty Officer’s Club lounge.  
  
“Come, Horatio,” Roberts said.  “You can’t leave me high and dry now.  Another trick before you go, we’ll have ‘em.”  
  
The other pair at the table harrumphed and grumbled their protest at Roberts’ assessment of their chances.  
  
“Alas, I must take my leave.  I’m sure this lad’ll serve you well,” the captain said with a chuckle. He gave a polite nod to bid the table goodnight, then patted Lestrade on the shoulder.  “Best of luck to you, Lieutenant.”  
  
Roberts had squinted at him across the table after the captain left, and Lestrade nodded a greeting, heart pounding.  
  
“Got a ship?” Roberts had said  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
“Win me this trick, and I’ll give you a posting.”  
  
“Aye aye, sir.”  
  
There’d been the barest twitch of a smile from Roberts, and then Lestrade put as much effort towards cards as a man can. More by the grace of whatever saint guards the fools who gamble than any skill on his part, they had won.  The commodore seated to Lestrade’s left had handed over a fine gold watch to Captain Roberts, who’d tossed the watch up once and caught it tight in one fist, his smile as wide and toothy as a shark’s.  He’d walloped Lestrade on the back, making him stagger, residual pain shooting through his freshly healed thigh.  
  
Roberts had been good to his word and arranged for Lestrade’s orders to be issued.  To his surprise, Roberts was not captaining a naval vessel, but an East Indiaman, _Galatea_ , bound for Madras.  He’d barely had time to dash back to his grotty little room and collect his meagre belongings before they set sail.   
  
Another surprise was discovering that he was first lieutenant.  He’d not have thought a captain would wish to sail with a new first, but Roberts seemed quite content, eager to leave Lestrade to his duties.    
  
Only once he was aboard learning the ebb and flow of a new crew under his command, did he learn that the captain was new to the vessel as well, a last minute substitution for another who had fallen ill.  Presumably Roberts, a well-respected captain in the Navy, had his reasons for taking such a posting, but it wasn’t Lestrade’s place to ask, so he kept his curiosity to himself.  
  
An all new command structure for a ship meant an adjustment period for the crew, and there was a fair bit of pushing back from the hands before they learned that their new lieutenant was no slouch, and that their captain, though remote, was swift with the lash when needed.  Soon they were in order, and some weeks into the journey, the ship found a rhythm as smooth as the tides.  
  
Lestrade climbed the gangway to the poop deck, feet already dragging even though he was only an hour into his watch.  
  
Lieutenant Deverall raised an eyebrow when Lestrade came in view.  
  
“Give orders to full the sails,” Lestrade said with a weary wave of his hand.  
  
Deverall had at least enough sense not to visibly roll his eyes, though he might as well have.  Lestrade should have called him on it—such visible disrespect was bad business for shipboard discipline—but he felt exactly the same himself, so decided to let it go.  
  
Deverall took up the speaking horn and bellowed orders into it, setting the crew scrambling up the rigging to loose the canvas sails.  They billowed and strained as they took up the wind, and the ship leaned hard, struggling for balance and shooting forward.  They would make time, but it was, in Lestrade’s opinion, poor seamanship.  Better to be cautious than have a sudden powerful gust set her tipping into the sea.  
  
“Old Thunderbrows has another nettle in his bonnet, I gather?”  Deverall came beside Lestrade and spoke quietly, barely loud enough to be heard over the wind.  
  
Lestrade pinched his mouth in disapproval, folding his arms.  
  
“He’s still the captain,” he said, matching Deverall’s low volume.  
  
“He’s a bloody maniac,” Deverall snorted, and then frowned up at the straining sails.  “I was worried after the storm, but now I’ll count myself lucky to see India.”  
  
“Enough of that,” Lestrade said sharply.  
  
Deverall tipped his head in apology.  
  
“Sorry, sir.  Only I don’t know how you do it, Lestrade.”  
  
“Duty.  Same as you.”  He stressed the last word as a heavy-handed reminder.  
  
Deverall cleared his throat, nodding and clasping his hands behind his back to indicate he’d received the message.  
  
Ask any boy who dreamed of glory and adventure in His Majesty’s Naval Service, and he’d concoct a picture of Deverall as the ideal officer he wished to be.  He was young and fit, his skin tanned by the sun and elements to a perfect golden brown, and his uniform was of an impeccable tailoring, with the finest accessories right down to the brightly shined buckles of his shoes.  Deverall’s family had money to spend, and had done so on their treasured son—from outfitting him with his finery to securing him his commission.  He had the accent of nobility, though he didn’t have a title so far as Lestrade knew.  
  
He wasn’t mere decoration in uniform, however.  Deverall was a fine officer; smart, gifted, and hardworking.  His devil-may-care wittiness fell into flippancy and could grate on Lestrade’s nerves occasionally—he was much like an overenthusiastic younger brother in that respect—but Lestrade had come to trust and like him, and was grateful for his reliable presence.  
  
When he’d first come aboard, Lestrade had thought Deverall would be resentful of losing first lieutenant status, but he was graciously accepting.  After a week under weigh, Lestrade knew that Deverall was desperately grateful that Lestrade outranked him.  Working alongside Captain Roberts was a challenge Deverall happily left to Lestrade, leaving Deverall free to snipe and joke.  
  
Times like these, Lestrade had to admit that Deverall’s boyish humour was a blessing.  They all needed a lift, even if it was borderline mutinous grumbling to cut the tension.  Deverall usually knew how to walk the fine line, and Lestrade appreciated him for it.  Only once in a while did Lestrade have to steer him back into order.  
  
Despite Lestrade’s worries, the wind eased up and the ship righted herself.  There were only a few scattered fluffy white clouds dotting the blue sky, and the temperature mild for their equatorial position.    
  
Passengers began to come onto the main deck, taking strolls.  Miss Hooper and her elderly chaperone were among them, and Lestrade did his best to not let his attention linger too obviously.  But she caught him looking her direction, and gave him a shy little wave.  There was a disapproving objection from Mrs. Grimsby at her side, and Lestrade only had time for a polite nod before she was whisked away for’ard to take in the fresh air at the bow.  
  
Deverall, damn him, was sharp as a tack.  He was a merciless gossip, and far too interested in all things to do with beautiful women—and men, if he read between the lines well enough, for Deverall happily shared his attention with all the attractive passengers, despite the unofficial custom banning fraternization between crew and passengers.  
  
“There’s a little rest and relaxation for you, Lestrade.”  
  
“Don’t start, Deverall.”  
  
Undeterred, Deverall clasped his hands behind his back and gave an exaggerated roll of his shoulders.  
  
“Ah, well.  If you’ve no claim, then—“  
  
“Oy, stop being an arse, William!”  Lestrade snapped with all the wilting authority of a beleaguered father rather than a first lieutenant, and glared at Deverall for dragging him down to this childish level.  He collected himself and cleared his throat.  “You’re on duty.  Watch the ship, not the passengers.”  
  
Deverall fell silent, radiating smugness, and Lestrade sighed.  Fine advice for himself as well.  He spent a little too much time thinking about Miss Hooper’s soft cheek, and the twitching sway of her hips as she walked.  
  
“Lestrade?”  
  
Both he and Deverall swivelled around at the deep voice.  Captain Roberts was coming up the gangway with his peculiar rolling gait, an injury from an old battle having left its mark.  They snapped to attention.  Lestrade was instantly on guard at this unexpected reappearance—the captain was rarely seen on deck unless there was specific business to be seen to, let alone twice in one day.  
  
“Yes, sir?”  
  
“What’s our position?”  
  
He didn’t have a ready answer, and there was a momentary panic that flushed through him.  The captain’s patience was nonexistent.  Deverall picked up on it right away and lowered his head in a little bow.  
  
“I’ll get the information from the sailing master, sir,” he said.  He hurried off to the master, who was stationed at the wheel.  
  
Roberts watched him go, oddly silent, and Lestrade held his breath for the minute it took Deverall to return.  
  
“Well?” Roberts said.  
  
“A few minutes north of the equator, sir.  We’ll cross by this time tomorrow, if the wind holds.”  
  
Roberts smiled.  It was such an unexpected sight that Deverall and Lestrade exchanged a glance.  
  
“I think it’s high time we had a celebration aboard.  Lift the passenger’s spirits.  And do something to take away from all that ridiculous superstitious claptrap those jack-tars spread belowdecks.  Lestrade, see to it.”  
  
He turned to leave without further explanation, and Lestrade took a few steps to pursue him, mystified.  
  
“A—a party, sir?”  
  
Roberts stopped and wheeled back to him.  
  
“A party.  Have you never seen a party before?  Food, drinks, music.  The lot.  Get on it, the both of you!”  
  
“Aye aye, sir,”  Lestrade said quickly.  “I’ll see to it immediately.”  
  
Roberts nodded with a satisfied grunt and loped off, quickly disappearing down the gangplank to return to the great cabin.  
  
Deverall was as floored as Lestrade.  
  
“Are we to be social coordinators, now?”  
  
“Deverall, I swear you’ve got a wish to swing from the yardarm.  Watch your bloody mouth!”  
  
“Aye, sir.”  Deverall looked properly chastened this time.  “Sorry, sir.”  
  
Lestrade sighed and rubbed his brow.  One didn’t question the captain’s orders; such questions were kept within the privacy of one’s thoughts, but party planning was hardly the purview of the lieutenants.  
  
Yet, here they were.  
  
“At least we’ll get a good meal,” Deverall said.  
  
On deck, Miss Hooper and Mrs. Grimsby had completed the turn of the deck, and she spared Lestrade another shy smile before disappearing from his view, and Lestrade lifted his hand in a half-wave and answering smile before realizing what he was doing, and dropping it again, pulling himself upright to proper attention.    
  
Deverall looked like he was in physical pain from the effort required to keep his mouth shut.  
  
“Hold the watch, I’ll be back after I speak with the purser,”  Lestrade said.  
  
“Aye, sir.”    
  
The sparkle in Deverall’s eye was irritating, but he kept his tongue in his head, and so Lestrade couldn’t give him the lambasting he dearly wished to deliver.  Instead he hurried on to speak to the purser regarding details for the upcoming event.  
  
Lestrade was gentleman enough to deny it, but he did hope to spend time with Miss Hooper again, and a party sounded like a nice time to do it.  
  
Watches were long and dull, and off-duty hours could be moreso, and if half those times were spent daydreaming about having Miss Hooper in his bunk, her heels toward heaven and her dark hair spread over his thin pillow—well, that was his business.  He was only human, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parties and plot

 

A ship under weigh was a world unto itself. Every little moment was amplified, exaggerated, and swelled into monstrous proportions. Each tragedy was the greatest tragedy, each hour of drudgery equal to an aeon for how painfully dull it was, and each hour of anticipation painfully sweet for how much the excitement was needed.

And, like any world anywhere, gossip flew faster than the swiftest gull, closer to the speed of thought, as though the ship were one great organism. Lestrade was certain that by the time he’d merely finished speaking with the purser, the entire ship already knew of the next night’s planned festivities. They quivered with excitement, both passengers and crew talking about it everywhere he went, until even Lestrade found himself eagerly looking forward to the event.

The resourcefulness of an isolated people was similarly impressive. In the space of a single day, many came forward with contributions. A party of four musicians bound for a three year tour with the Calcutta Chamber Orchestra volunteered their services as a musical quartet for dances. Three cloth merchants, with bolts of fabric samples they hadn’t trusted to the hold crammed in their close quarters, offered to decorate the stateroom for the event, adding colour and texture to the otherwise fading grandeur of _Galatea’_ s stocked trimmings.

The sailors, judging by the whispers and nudges, were quietly tending to their own belowdecks affairs, and there was a palpable ripple of energy that spread through them when the shout came that they’d passed over the equatorial line. Lestrade gave the unofficial word for the midshipmen to turn a blind eye to it and let the men vent their energies on the harmless celebration. The captain would be occupied with the party, and so Lestrade doubted word of the crew activities would get back to him, so any concern he had for superstition and such would pass him by. Or so Lestrade hoped.

The midshipmen nodded and scattered to their duties, some sulking that they’d be stuck holding watch while the lieutenants had the opportunity to attend the party.

Anderson in particular, a sour and officious man far too old to be a midshipman, slumped away with a dark and glowering look. The twit got under Lestrade’s skin. He seemed to have a specific taste for masochistic treatment of the crew, and had even gone as far as needling passengers. In general, caning was reserved for the youngest midshipmen, and a man over the age of twenty could expect not to face the indignity of kissing the gunner’s daughter. However, not even half way to South America Anderson was sorely testing Lestrade’s desire to honour that Naval tradition. If he stepped too far over the line with his needless cruelty, he’d find himself having a very unpleasant cruise.

As the sun sank beyond the horizon and the last golden rays shone in through the portholes, the passengers, replete in their best wear, gathered in the stateroom. Lestrade and the other lieutenants had pulled out their own finest uniforms, the least weather-beat of coats and trousers.

The room filled, brimming with the eagerness and delight of a celebration. Even Dimmock, the third lieutenant who rarely found anything to smile at, had an easy attitude and a glass in hand. Probably not his first, judging by the way he was tapping his foot to the brisk beat of the quartet beginning a dance number and looking longingly at the dance floor. He glanced over and caught Lestrade eyeing him, and hurriedly hid behind a scowl, clearing his throat. Lestrade chuckled, then turned when Deverall appeared at his side.

“Have you seen the captain?” Deverall asked, scanning the state room.

He’d been as busy as Lestrade, scurrying through the ship to mobilize passengers and crew in order to organize the event.

“No, no sign.” He glanced at the bulkhead separating them from the great room that was the captain’s quarters. “I’m sure he’ll make the lengthy commute when he has the time.”

“Ooh, Lestrade, such mutinous wit,” Deverall said, raising an eyebrow.

Lestrade shot him a dirty look.

“Enjoy it while you can, Deverall. I doubt there’ll be many parties to come.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Deverall said, touching two fingers to his forehead. “An order I shall follow with great relish and zeal.”

“What did I do to deserve you,” Lestrade sighed, walking towards the drinks table.

“Something very good, no doubt.”

Deverall trailed behind him with a smirk, and Lestrade decided to leave well enough alone.

They passed a cluster of gentlemen talking, and Lestrade spotted Mr. Knott. He was listening to Colonel Jackson loudly relating a story about his last trip to India, back in his early days in the infantry, with a put-upon and beleaguered air. Lestrade couldn’t blame him, Jackson could talk for England, and power a hot air balloon with the sheer amount of bluster he produced. Lestrade held a finger up to Deverall to ask him to wait a moment and touched Knott on the shoulder.

Knott started and looked around, eyes wide, and then he relaxed when he saw it was Lestrade and Deverall. Knott’s gaze darted between them nervously.

“Er, Mr. Knott, good evening. I hope you are recovered and your seasickness has not troubled you again,” Lestrade said, politely nodding his head.

“Oh—oh yes, much recovered. Thank you.” Knott seemed unwilling to meet his eye, and turned back to give his attention to Jackson, suddenly appearing attentive.

At his side, Deverall cleared his throat conspicuously. Lestrade winced, realizing he’d likely bruised Knott’s ego. No man liked to have his weaknesses exposed before his peers.

“Shall we find ourselves a drink?” Deverall suggested quietly.

“Fine idea,” Lestrade said.

However, before they could politely extricate themselves from the conversation circle, the captain’s steward appeared with a tray of drinks. With a deferential nod to the gentlemen, he passed out glasses to each of them.

Deverall took his with a pleased noise and immediately took a sip, his eyes falling closed.

“Oh God in Heaven, that is a blessed relief. I’ve not had a decent glass of wine in two years.”

Lestrade took a suspicious sniff of his glass. Unlike Deverall and his high-bred tastes, he preferred a pint, or a sweet and simple wine. His personal opinion was that refinement was more about pretending to like horrible and uncomfortable things. The wine smelled sharp and strong, and he already knew he wouldn’t like it. If this was what being upper crust was about, he’d pass.

The steward moved on quickly after delivering the drinks, and just as he did so, Colonel Jackson pinwheeled his hands outward in exaggerated manner as he roared with laughter. He knocked Mr. Knott in the chest, and the hors d’oeuvres in his hand smeared a streak of caviar across his cravat.  

Knott squawked in affront. He stared down at his soiled clothing, one hand clutching his drink and the other a little plate with various nibbles held high.

“Oh, terribly sorry.”  Jackson produced a kerchief from his pocket.  “Reliving the glory days a little too vividly,” he said with a chuckle.

He proffered the kerchief, and Knott looked around fruitlessly for a place to put his things down. Finding none, he thrust his glass into Lestrade’s hand.  Knott shot venomous looks at Jackson as he cleaned himself off, but Jackson had resumed his blustering story, not caring if Knott and Lestrade were still listening.

Deverall leaned close to Lestrade, speaking quietly in his ear.

“To hear him tell it, he conquered all of India by himself.”

Lestrade snorted, then bit the inside of his cheek and ducked his head to keep himself from smiling.

Knott thrust the soiled kerchief back into Jackson’s still wildly gesticulating hand and snatched one of the glasses back from Lestrade.  Knott tossed back half the wine, still glaring at Jackson, who continued talking without pause.

Lestrade took a sip of the glass left him and grimaced at the bitter flavour.  Perhaps he’d try to find another glass somewhere around with the ship’s usual stock.

He glanced around, Colonel Jackson’s storytelling turning into a baritone white noise that rolled over him without making an impact. He scanned the room and hit upon a gaze turned his way—Miss Hooper.  He smiled at her, and her mouth made a little round ‘oh’ at having been caught looking at him.

Her dress, simple and yet flattering, was as deep a red as the wine, sitting low across her shoulders and bodice.  With effort he kept his gaze from wandering down along that path and kept eye contact with her.  He raised his glass in a little toast, and was rewarded with a blushing smile.  Her attention shifted towards the floor where the dances were just beginning, and then back to him.  It was a hopeful look, if he wasn’t reading too much into it.

An elbow nudged Lestrade in the side, and Deverall sighed loudly.

“You’re a model officer, and setting a fine example for us all. But take a night off, eh?” Lestrade eyed him, and Deverall’s expression softened. “Lestrade, as your second lieutenant, and as your friend, take what you can, while you can. You’re not on duty, the captain’s not here, and though you seem to forget it on a daily basis, a merchant ship is not His Majesty’s Navy. Relax. Go dance. They’ll not hang you for it.”

Deverall was earnest, his expression worried, and Lestrade realized to what extent Deverall was also affected by the poison trickling through the veins of this ship. His concern was touching, and Lestrade nodded, smiling. He clapped Deverall on the shoulder.

“Fine, fine. Go on, take your own advice and do the same.”

Deverall smiled, broad and relieved, his youth shining through. He nodded and wandered off, making a beeline for the drinks table to refresh his glass. Lestrade snorted with laughter and returned his gaze to across the room.

Ms. Grimsby was at Miss Hooper’s elbow, haranguing her young charge about something or other, and Miss Hooper’s attention was dragged away—quite literally—as Ms. Grimsby took her arm and pulled her off to a chattering social circle. Disappointed, he turned his attention back to the gentlemen and their conversation. He’d ask her to dance later, perhaps.

When he finally excused himself and made a tour of the festivities, he spotted Miss Hooper being led onto the dance floor by Sherlock Holmes, and he cursed his poor timing.

Lestrade had a fondness for the little snot, despite his aristocratic snobbery.  Holmes had a persistent habit of cutting a swath through the ship, leaving behind a trail of irritation or livid fury, depending on the day.  However, Holmes mostly annoyed the people who annoyed Lestrade, which had a pleasing symmetry.  Nothing quite as satisfying as watching someone suffering the same treatment they doled out to others.  

There was no way he’d ever admit to himself that he could be jealous of a reedy little thing like the young Master Holmes. Even so, the sight of Miss Hooper’s hand in his as he guided her to the floor, then through the swift whirling steps of the waltz, had him frowning and sulking just a little at the pleased smiles Holmes’ smooth dance moves pulled from her.

Lestrade was a fair dancer himself, and he felt relaxed and a little bold, the party planning was done, the captain absent but temporarily not Lestrade’s problem. He could indulge himself in a dance with Miss Hooper.

The waltz ended and Lestrade readied himself to approach and offer a dance.  Instead, Sherlock and Molly, heads still together as they chatted, stayed on the floor and were pulled into the next dance, a quadrille.  He fidgeted and waited as long as he could, but then when Holmes was near him he saw his opportunity and tapped Holmes’ shoulder to cut in.  It was as smoothly done as manners would allow, and Holmes acquiesced with a stiff but deferential nod.

Civil behaviour from Holmes.  Who would have ever thought?  Lestrade would count himself among the fortunate few to receive his goodwill.  About the only time he saw the boy smile was with that blond sailor, Watson, whom he’d been following around like a lost pup, playing at sailors and borderline interfering with ship’s duties.  Lestrade had his eye on that particular situation—mixing of the passengers and crew was nothing but trouble.  He’d broken up a few hopeful liaisons already, sending sailors off with the threat of the lash as motivation to keep their trousers buttoned.  It was to be a long voyage, and the less complication in their ship’s tiny societal microcosm, the better.

 _Hypocrite_ , whispered a voice in his mind, as the dance brought Miss Hooper spinning toward him.  Bless the clever soul that had invented dancing, freeing young men and women from their chaperones long enough to get a word in edgewise. Already his face hurt from smiling so much, and the pure joy in her expression made him feel like a foolish boy.  Their hands clasped as she twined through the dance form, back for a turn with him, however brief, before the dance sent partners trading once again, and the portly Mrs. Gravely from Yorkshire barrelled into him like a ship banging into the dock in a storm.

Miss Hooper accepted his offer to dance again once the quadrille came to an end, and they glided into motion as the strains of a waltz took up.

“Are you enjoying the party, Miss Hooper?” he asked as they swayed.

“Oh yes, very much!”  She was enthusiastic and bubbly with the energy of the crowd.  She glanced around, then lowered her voice in a conspiratorial manner.  “You may call me Molly, if you like.”

“Molly,” he repeated.  It came out a little too intimately, but he couldn’t help himself.  He’d have said the wine was going to his head, if he hadn’t had so little.  He grinned at her, pulling her a little closer, mouth close to her ear.  “Then you must call me Gregory.”

The little squeak she made was somewhere between a laugh and alarm, and he laughed.  She was beautiful, a playful sweetness hidden beneath her meek persona.  He pressed his nose to her head, against the soft upswept line of her hair, and inhaled.  The scent of her perfume was making him giddy.  Somewhere deep in the fog of his thoughts, an alarm bell was ringing.  He shouldn’t be doing this, but sense was deserting him.

The waltz passed and another partner dance began, but his stomach was cramping and his head thick, and he could barely remember the steps.  When they moved into a turn a strong wave of vertigo hit him.  He stumbled like a lubber unused to shipboard life, his entire body knocking into Molly in a most inappropriate manner.

“Oh my—” Molly squawked, muffled into his shoulder.  “Lieutenant!”

He pulled back from her, trying to regain his equilibrium.  He rubbed a hand across his brow, hoping to soothe away the violent spinning.

“Sorry,” he slurred.  “I’m sorry, I don’t—I don’t know…”  He trailed off, uncertain where that thought had been going.

Molly frowned and stepped close to peer up at him.

“Are you alright, Gregory?”

He wasn’t sure.  He couldn’t muster a response, his tongue suddenly thick and heavy in his mouth, and he shook his head, which sent him reeling again. He staggered and lost footing.  Molly leapt forward and wrapped an arm around his waist, which was all that kept him from tumbling to the floor.

She was leading him now, guiding him off the dance floor.  He caught a distorted flash of Dimmock and Deverall looking over their way, Deverall flashing him a smile and a wink, no doubt to do with the warm press of Molly to his side.

He only blinked, he was sure of it, and he was transported to the other side of the room.  Sherlock Holmes was speaking to him, lips moving, dark brow furrowed and concerned.  He tried to speak, but he was barely able to keep standing.  His own garbled voice met his ears, as distorted as the rush of sound around him.

Another blink and he was in a corridor, Holmes’ bony shoulder digging into his ribs, Lestrade’s feet scuffing along the deck as he staggered at his side.  His stomach was in excruciating knots, and his entire body was wracked with pain.  This wasn’t drunkenness, or any of the illnesses he’d endured. It was beyond even the fever he’d suffered through when his leg wound had become infected during his recuperation.

He collapsed into his bunk, dropped there by a winded Holmes.

“I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m very much afraid that you have been poisoned,” Holmes said as he tipped blessedly cool water into Lestrade’s mouth.

That sank into his haze, striking home.

 _Poisoned_.  God’s teeth, he was damned well going to die, wasn’t he?  Three postings to ships of the line, a Spanish sword through the leg, and he was going to die of poison on an East Indiamen, surrounded by the overfed elite of England, and under the eye of an aristocrat’s bored, spoiled child.  

A spoiled child who had hauled him to his bunk, and was gently tending to him with concern and care, so perhaps there was much more to Holmes than that. He would have tried to express his gratitude, but he was in too much pain to speak.

Holmes asked something else. Lestrade shook his head, not understanding, and regretting the effort immediately.  He tried to unclench his cramping muscles and lie down in his bunk.

Dying in his bed.  He’d dreamed of dying in his bed, but he’d pictured himself old and worn out, a wife at his side, children grown, happy little grandchildren scurrying about.  Hardly the life a naval officer was likely to live, but what were fantasies if not for imagining the unattainable?

If he’d known he was going to die, he’d have kissed Molly before he left the party.

He dozed, and then a shaking woke him.  John Watson, peering into his eyes, examining him with the same swift, confident precision of the ship’s doctor.

Lestrade had no illusions about the men who crewed naval and merchant vessels.  Some were thieves and debtors, the scum of the streets, scraped off the bottom of England’s barrel and sent to sea.  The service took every man they could get their hands on, and woe betide the lone man when the press gang is out in force.  Be he banker or beggar, if he was alone and without family connections, he was bound for Kingston at daybreak.

Watson was one of those unfortunates caught in the net, he suspected.  A good worker with a sharp mind and an education of some sort, including medical knowledge.  He’d been called on a few times to doctor the crew for minor maladies, and a ship was willing to take skilled help where it could be found, even if it was on the bottom-most rung.

Lestrade shouldn’t have been surprised that Holmes called him—after the storm, it was Watson who’d come to him with agitated fear, asking permission to take care of Holmes when he’d been feverish and near death for days.

“No one else cares if he lives or dies, sir,” Watson had said, fists clenched as he stood at stiff attention. “Please.”

He was right, the ship’s surgeon might have spared some laudanum for the young man, but not tended to him as a truly sick man needed, and Holmes had no friends with him.

Well, he had one, it seemed.

“I certainly can’t be expected to keep an eye on every sailor every moment of every day,” Lestrade had grunted, not looking at Watson. “Be about your business, Watson.”

A wink was as good as a nod, and Watson had dashed away, a hurried, whispered _“thank you”_ fading in the sea breeze behind him. Lestrade had turned a blind eye for the following days, and said nothing when Holmes surfaced again, staggering to deck with the pale, thin frame of a man who’d been forced to confront his own mortality.

Watson was a fine doctor, and clever enough to tend to Holmes without getting caught. A series of different turns of fate, and it could have been John Watson in a lieutenant’s uniform, and Lestrade pulling ropes and winding the capstan.  Lestrade knew the flow of Watson’s speech, could tell that they were both born of similar stock.  However, it was Lestrade’s due to give orders, and Watson’s due to take them.  Hierarchy and order, rigid and inflexible, a system long held, and which kept each British vessel afloat.

Rigid rules that were to be followed unquestioningly, such as no sailors in the officer’s quarters, or no passengers fraternizing with the crew.  As Watson braced Lestrade’s body, coaxing him to vomit until he was sure there was nothing left in him, feeding him water and reassuring him that the poison was being cleansed from his system, Lestrade had never been so grateful to see systemic order flouted on his ship.

He wanted to thank them both, but his throat was raw and his body beyond response, and he instead sank into insensibility.  The faint hum of Watson and Holmes’ quiet voices faded and blended with the ship’s creaking, groaning chorus.

 

***

 

Lestrade woke, mouth dry as cotton, his body exhausted and weak, to no sign of Holmes or Watson. His quarters were dark; the first lieutenant was fortunate enough to have a cabin with a porthole for fresh air and light, but it was only admitting the murky light of dawn. He must have managed to rest most of the night. He groped for the small oil lamp hung by his bunk. It swayed with the ship, but he finally caught hold of it. The small flint struck after a few tries, and he winced at the bright flare of light.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he looked over and saw Captain Roberts sitting in the chair by his small writing desk, staring at him from the low lit gloom.

Lestrade struggled to sit, but his body didn’t want to respond.  He managed to prop himself up on one elbow. His heart was racing to action, but his body was far too pained to respond as eagerly.

“Sir?” he croaked.  “I didn’t…”   Lestrade coughed as his dry throat rasped and his voice failed.

Still silent, Roberts stood and fetched the pitcher on the small table by the bunk, pouring some water.  He sat on the edge of the bunk and handed Lestrade the tin cup.  Lestrade took it, in equal measures grateful and trepidatious, and drank it down.

“Handsomely, now,” Roberts said.  “You’ll make yourself sick.”

Indeed, Lestrade’s stomach turned, but he kept it down. His throat was soothed from its scratchy dryness.

It wasn’t his place to ask—a captain could do as he liked, which included watching his lieutenant malinger in his cabin, should he choose—but his curiosity got the better of him.

“What are you doing here, sir?”

Roberts grunted, a harumphing, disapproving noise, but he didn’t issue forth the tongue-lashing Lestrade expected.

“Checking on you,” he said.  “To see that you were well.”

Lestrade shifted to get his elbow under him better.   Roberts seemed to be physically pained by the expression of sentiment.

“Thank you, sir. I’m—I’m well.” It was a poor lie, but there was not much else to say.

Roberts cleared his throat loudly, and then the familiar scowl fell over his features.

“I’ll not have my lieutenants overindulging in alcohol on my ship. Am I clear?”

Lestrade shuffled into a sitting position. Bloody hell, the captain thought he was a drunk? He shook his head, trying to ignore the spinning it set loose on his senses.

“No—no, sir, I didn’t—“

“Understood, Lestrade?”

Lestrade paused, confused, his mind slow. Roberts was looking at him with a wild gleam in his eye; fear, rage, or just blind animal ferocity, he didn’t know. The rocking of the lantern swinging on its rope made the light dance over his craggy features, dark shadows swooping beneath his eyes and nose, painting him in terrible sharp relief. Lestrade shook his head again, unable to break the hypnotic spell Roberts had fixed him with.

“Sir, I…“

Roberts’ mouth tightened, and his head tilted to the side with a kind of warning, and Lestrade didn’t finish his thought. Lestrade swallowed, trying to regain control of himself, and managed a nod.

“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.”

Roberts’ rheumy blue eyes scanned over Lestrade, and then gave a satisfied grunt as he leaned back.

“Did you have a good time?”

Lestrade was struck speechless, and it wasn’t until Roberts cocked one thick, feathered eyebrow that he could get a word out.

“Yes, sir. Lovely time.”

“Good to hear.” Roberts stood and nodded formally to Lestrade. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”

Without a further word he left, the cabin door closing behind him with a thump.

Lestrade, shaking, closed his eyes.

What the hell was going on?

 

***

 

By the time the bell rang to mark the start of the forenoon watch, Lestrade was feeling fit enough for duty, if still exhausted. He groomed and dressed with extra care, but when he caught sight of his reflection in the brass plaque declaring _Galatea’s_ construction in 1769 at Blackwall Yard, he still looked a fright—pale and wrecked, much like Holmes after his fever.

Holmes and Watson, Lestrade owed his life to them both. Holmes’ quick action had saved him, as surely as Watson’s medical skills. God knew what would have happened if he’d collapsed at the party, if Molly hadn’t been so quick thinking as to get help.

And Molly; he didn’t even know what had happened to her after the party. He’d not been in a state to ask either Holmes or Watson. He’d have to find them both, thank them for helping save his life. He only had a watch to get through, then he could seek them out.

The captain’s morning debrief was short and perfunctory. Both Deverall and Dimmock were squinting into the bright late morning sunshine, the sway of the deck apparently too much for their wine-sore heads as the three lieutenants lined up and gave their reports on the state of the ship. Beside their pale faces, Lestrade’s ill pallor didn’t even bear notice. As a bonus, Deverall was much too hung over to even dredge up a teasing remark about Lestrade’s dancing with Miss Hooper.

Captain Roberts listened to each in turn, frowning and silent. He didn’t even spare a lingering look for Lestrade, no indication of his dawn visit to Lestrade’s quarters.

“Carry on,” Roberts snapped, and left the quarterdeck.

Lestrade relaxed from attention when he was out of sight. Dimmock and Deverall did the same, both of them with a quiet groan of misery. Lestrade slipped away from them to speak to the helmsman and get an idea of their bearings and the wind direction—anything to keep himself occupied so he wouldn’t keep dwelling on the events of the last twelve hours, keeping half an eye out for Molly on the deck, should he have the opportunity to speak with her.

So far as he knew, there were no other reports of illness among the passengers or crew. He alone had been poisoned. Someone wanted him dead, and had failed.

Was it a disgruntled crew member, chafing under shipboard discipline? If so, how would they get access to the party, let alone access to poison? There weren’t many people aboard who would have both the resources and the opportunity.

Lestrade wished his head were clearer so that he could think, but he felt like his mind was stuffed with oakum, and he could barely concentrate on his conversation with the helmsman.

“Excuse me, Lieutenant?”

Lestrade looked down to the main deck to find Holmes sidled up to the rail of the quarterdeck, looking up at him and doing his best to appear nonchalant. However, the boy, with his stiff-backed aristocracy, was as subtle as a first rate ship of the line among a fleet of fishing schooners.

“I was wondering if I might have a word?” Holmes asked, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp and intent.

Of course Holmes wasn’t going to leave this alone. Already Lestrade had seen him meddling in all kinds of affairs—he seemed constitutionally predisposed to both finding and creating trouble. Bored and devoid of distraction thanks to the drudgery of shipboard life, he would find great sport in a poisoning.

Whatever was happening, Holmes needed to stay well away from it.

Lestrade led him down below amidships. Hidden in shadows of the ship, relying on the creak and groan of her great wooden body to mask their conversation.

Holmes, his long face a pale streak in the darkness, spoke quietly, and after brushing aside Holmes’ concern for his health, he leaned in close.

“You put both of your lives at risk just by coming to my aid,” he warned. “There’s still the possibility that whoever made me ill did so with the intention of killing me. If that was their intent, they are by now well aware that they didn’t succeed. If they know that either of you tried to help me the two of you could be in very real danger.”

Holmes pried for information on the captain, and in his confused innocence, Lestrade walked through what he knew, answering questions, as curious where Holmes was going as Holmes was in return for information. The captain was an odd man, and Lestrade’s fear and unbalance had loosened his tongue. He’d not normally have confided in a young passenger thus, but he’d saved his life. It built a camaraderie between men, staring into the face of death together.

“Did he notice that you looked unwell? Did he comment on your appearance?” Holmes asked, leaning forward, his attitude that of a bloodhound on the scent.

That made Lestrade pause. Something in the captain’s attitude had warned him that his unexpected visit was not to be mentioned, and he shook his head.

“No. No, he made no comment other than to ask whether I had enjoyed myself at the festivities the previous evening.” Not a total lie, but enough to redirect Holmes’ keen curiosity.

Or not. Holmes persisted, and Lestrade could tell he was skirting the edges of something important. Lestrade was growing more impatient by the minute as they spoke.

“Lieutenant, I wanted to speak with you because I have reason to believe—” Holmes paused, licking his lips uncertainly.

Lestrade wanted to shake him, to pull the words out of him. What did he think? What did he know? Did he know who’d done this?

The more Holmes said, the more they walked through his knowledge, the more Lestrade added with his own knowledge of the captain, the more frightening the picture Holmes built from disparate facts. He had more information than it seemed possible for a passenger to have on the workings of the ship, but it all made sense.

“It is my belief that the captain is responsible for your poisoning.”

_You drank too much, Lestrade._

Lestrade could hear the captain’s growl, feel his hot breath on his face. Lestrade hadn’t seen what was right in front of him, obvious in retrospect. Lestrade paled, gulping for breath, his hands going numb with shock.

Lord in Heaven, Holmes was a perceptive little bastard.

However, Roberts had come to his chambers to check on him, and had Lestrade at his mercy while he lay unconscious. Roberts had done nothing to finish what he’d started, merely accused him of overindulgence and inquired as to his enjoyment of the party. What was the point?

“Why would the captain want to poison his first officer?” he hissed.

He half-hoped Holmes had a decent answer. Alas, Holmes had none.

Whatever was going on, it was dangerous. He’d not have an innocent boy wandering in the crosshairs through idle curiosity. He moved close to speak in his ear, urgent and hushed.

“Listen to me, Holmes. What you are implying is—as you’ve said—a risk to your life simply by virtue of the fact that you have mentioned it. Under gentler command, this kind of talk is dangerous—it could mean you spend some time in irons. But on this ship, under this captain, your suggestion of the matter guarantees you will hang, likely without trial.”

He hoped it was enough to scare the boy off, but he had to press again before Holmes slumped his shoulders in defeat and nodded, head bowed in disappointment. Lestrade relaxed, relieved. Best to crush the lad’s budding hopes of being an investigator now than have him fall afoul of real trouble later on.

He left Holmes to the darkness, making his way above deck to leave the matter behind. He’d forget the incident as swiftly as possible, just as he’d advised Holmes to do.

He wasn’t certain how soon he’d be willing to take food or drink that he hadn’t pulled from the barrels himself.

 

***

By the end of his watch, Lestrade was shaking with exhaustion. He took time on deck before going below to rest. He found an unexpected island of quiet when he tucked himself away in the narrow space left behind a port lifeboat to look out over the water.

For a precious moment he could be alone and pretend he was in a safe haven of calm. He slumped on the railing and wiped a trembling hand over his face, then closed his eyes to feel the salt spray and let the familiarity of it comfort him.

Lestrade wasn’t one for cloak and dagger, in life or in war. In the war, it had been point the cannon, draw the sword, cry for King and country, and attack. Simple, direct, easy. How did one face an enemy flying false colours? Why was he facing an enemy at all, on an East Indiaman, in peacetime? It made no sense.

If Holmes was right, why had Roberts given him a posting only to try and kill him? What’s more, why come to see his failed results and not finish the job?

A hand touched his back, and Lestrade jumped and turned so swiftly that he cracked his head against the hull of the life boat at his back. He cursed and cringed as the blow rattled his already abused senses.

“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry to startle you, are you alright?”

The gentle voice was high-pitched with alarm. Lestrade opened his eyes to find Molly Hooper with her hands cupped over her mouth, eyes wide.

“I’m fine,” he said. He made an effort to straighten up. His head throbbed fiercely, but he smiled anyway, pretending it’d had no effect. “Hello, Miss Hooper. A pleasure.”

She dropped her hands from her mouth and blinked, still worried. By the way she looked at him, he knew he looked no better than he had this morning.

“I came to see if you were well after…” She waved her hands aimlessly to try and express her meaning, but she didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.

“Thanks to you, I am.” He was so very tired of this fear and uncertainty, and it felt good to know he had at least two people he could trust on his vessel. “I owe you my life, Miss Hooper.”

Molly smiled, her gaze dropping away from his demurely, and he warmed at the sweetness in her reaction. Unexpectedly, she lifted a gloved hand and boldly touched his arm, delicately brushing at the heavy wool coat as though sweeping away dust, even though he knew there was none. When she looked back up at him, she bit her lip, still smiling.

“You may still call me Molly.”

With those words, a flash of the night before came to him. The feel of her body in his arms, the heady smell of her perfume as he pressed his face to her hair, his head spinning and decorum falling away, whispering in her ear, treating her like a tavern girl rather than the refined lady she was…

“Oh, hell,” he blurted, then winced at Molly’s scandalized, surprised look. He moved closer, lowering his voice to hurriedly. “I’m sorry. Please, I—I believe I owe you an apology. I wasn’t quite myself last night, and I acted inappropriately. I’m truly sorry.”

“Ah,” Molly said uncertainly. “You didn’t mean to dance with me?”

“What? No—no! No, I did, it wasn’t that. I mean the…” It was his turn to be caught short of words, but plucked up his resolve and persevered. “The, er, familiarity of my actions as we danced.”

She blinked, thoughtful, then said, “I rather enjoyed that part, I think.”

She met his gaze and held it, and if not for the loose strands of her hair dancing in the wind, he might have thought that time stood still for a precious few seconds. Lestrade realized they’d come very close together to hear each other over the steady rush of the ocean swells, that they were both hidden away in this intimate little corner, quite out of sight. It was as beautiful a moment as life had offered him in many years, and he very much wished he could take it and hold it in his hands.

He was still a romantic fool after all.

On impulse, he brushed away the few hairs from her face, much as he’d done the first time they’d spoken. She didn’t pull away, but tilted her head towards his hand with a smile that brought dimples to her cheeks. He lingered, taken with the softness of her skin, which was starting to redden along her cheekbones under the fierce sun’s rays. She was very beautiful.

“Truthfully? So did I,” he confessed. “Thank you, again, Molly.”

To his utter shock, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. Firm, decisive, and swift—hard enough, in fact, that the strike of her lips against his rocked him back on his heels, effectively breaking the kiss before it had begun.

He blinked at her stupidly, quite at a loss.

Her cheeks were much, much redder with a fierce blush, and her mouth rounded in shock, as though her own action had surprised her as much as him. She took a quick step back from him, and he felt as though a prop had been pulled from him, leaving him unsteady.

“I’m—I’m most pleased to know that you are well,” Molly stuttered. “Good day, Lieutenant.”

Lestrade didn’t know what to say, and before he could decide how to respond, Molly fled in a flurry of whirling skirts and tongue-tied embarrassment.

Lestrade leaned a hip against the rail, head swimming. A pleased flush was spreading through him, his lips still tingling from where they’d pressed to hers. He started to smile, until a daft grin was plastered across his face.

“Gregory,” he murmured to himself. “Call me Gregory.”

 _Too little too late, you arse,_ whispered a truly unhelpful voice in his head. That voice sounded far too much like Deverall for his tastes.

He sighed heavily and the smile fell away, his exhaustion creeping back over him. He needed to rest and sort through his thoughts.

This posting aboard the _Galatea_ was far, far too complicated.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is unintentionally turning into an OFD companion piece, because all the things that happen inbetween the story of Sherlock and John got me all fired up with hand-clapping excitement. There's a few more scenes I might add to this, but they rely on things yet to come in OFD which are some time in the future.
> 
> For now, call it done - but when they reach Rio, check back in.


End file.
